Thea glanced down at her captive, the two steel chains skewering him clean through. He wasn't going anywhere. Satisfied, she pulled higher into the night sky — 500 meters, then more — and began to circle the city at full throttle.
150 kilometers per hour.
200.
201.
202.
By 350, she felt her stomach twist and eased off slightly. So that's my new limit, she thought, mildly impressed. Her body was adapting faster than she'd expected.
She looked down at the purple-suited man dangling below her, swinging like a grotesque kite. He'd passed out halfway through their little joyride — probably from blood loss or sheer G-forces.
Serves you right.
Showing off that ugly flight rig in my airspace? Spraying green sludge like a broken paint gun? You're lucky I didn't drop you from orbit.
After another minute, she turned back toward the camp. No point in playing around with dead weight.
When she landed, several policemen rushed over to take the prisoner. One look at the chains, though, and they froze. The holes through his body were the size of fists; removing the metal might kill him outright.
They exchanged glances, unsure what to do — and very clearly afraid of offending her.
Thea, catching their nervous glances, sighed and pressed a switch on her hoverboard.
Click! Snap!
The tri-hooks retracted neatly, sliding back into the board's body. The chains slithered free from the man's wounds without tearing further flesh.
Thanks to the high-altitude cold, the blood had already frozen over; there was no immediate danger of bleeding out.
She'd finally figured out Gotham's unspoken hero code:
You couldn't kill people.
But crippling them? Totally fine.
As long as they were technically alive when handed to the cops, what happened afterward was "a medical issue," not "a hero's fault."
Batman had mastered this loophole years ago — righteous violence with plausible deniability.
The Flash, poor soul, would someday learn this lesson the hard way.
Well, Thea thought, that's convenient. No more worrying about accidentally breaking the "no killing" rule.
Two officers escorted the barely conscious villain away for questioning. They didn't even bother with handcuffs — one of his legs was shredded beyond recognition. The question wasn't will he escape? but will he ever walk again?
Thea followed them into the interrogation area. Maybe this guy had intel about Arkham.
Halfway there, she asked casually,
"So, uh, who exactly is this clown?"
The whole group froze mid-stride.
"You… don't know?"
Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's Killer Moth — real name Drury Walker. Millionaire, amateur vigilante turned small-time criminal. Honestly, I have no idea why he'd attack us."
Thea blinked. Then, despite herself, snorted.
"Killer Moth? Wait, didn't I take down a Killer Croc the other week? What is this, the Killer Zoo collection?"
She shook her head. "Maybe they're cousins. Croc does water, Moth does air."
The joke fell flat. Nobody laughed.
Soon the medics arrived, followed by a pair of A.R.G.U.S. agents carrying a syringe of sodium thiopental.
Two doses later, the prisoner's eyes glazed over and his mouth started spilling everything.
Within minutes, the written confession was in Lyla's hands. She scanned it quickly and looked up, one brow raised.
"He's not from Arkham," she said slowly. "He's been chasing stolen property."
That got everyone's attention.
Then, as one, every head in the room turned to a certain feline-themed woman.
Selina Kyle coughed lightly, brushing an invisible speck off her glove.
"Okay, okay," she said with a nervous laugh. "Maybe he did put a tracker in that painting. My bad."
She even stuck out her tongue, trying to look cute.
Thea stared at her, utterly deadpan. Really? The great Catwoman thinks "oops, my bad" covers attempted murder?
"And here I thought I sent you to find reinforcements, not bring more enemies!" she snapped. "You don't recruit, you aggro."
Still, she felt a twinge of guilt. The guy technically hadn't done anything evil — just came to recover stolen goods. Maybe she'd gone a little overboard.
But when she glanced around, everyone else seemed unfazed. No outrage, no moral dilemma.
Ah. So this wasn't the first time Catwoman's "career habits" had caused… complications.
Apparently, even Batman had to smooth things over before.
That realization relaxed Thea instantly. If the Dark Knight can cover for her, so can I.
Gordon cleared his throat, unbothered. "Continue the interrogation. The serum's still active. Dig up everything — crimes, associates, tax evasion, I don't care. We'll make it stick."
And just like that, the conversation moved on. The maimed thief might as well have vanished from existence.
Thea couldn't help admiring Gotham's moral gymnastics. Beat a man half to death, then arrest him for paperwork errors — very heroic.
With Batman's reputation backing her, Catwoman could probably burn down a museum and still get probation.
Over the next three days, the camp erupted into controlled chaos.
Commissioner Gordon's call to arms spread fast. Three hundred full-time officers and two hundred auxiliaries rallied under his banner.
Meanwhile, Felicity's "Mayor's Emergency Address" went viral across every channel.
On-screen, the "mayor" wept bitterly, denouncing Gotham's criminals and his own helplessness.
He begged every veteran citizen to rise up, defend their city, and restore justice — all while a conveniently placed caption displayed Gordon's phone number and the base's address.
Say what you will about Gothamites, but they were direct.
Within days, over two hundred combat veterans — grizzled, half-mad, but eager — showed up ready to fight.
They barely needed training; give them a rifle, and they'd remember muscle memory fast enough.
Lyla, of course, quietly screened them. Her agents checked family backgrounds and mental profiles, cutting loose a dozen or so loners with that murder-hobo stare.
By the time the week ended, Thea's ragtag resistance looked less like a refugee camp and more like a small army.
The storm over Arkham was coming — and every misfit in Gotham seemed ready to march straight into hell.